


in Her image

by bombcollar



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game), Dark Souls III
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Unethical Experimentation, the choir - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-21 19:10:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13747428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bombcollar/pseuds/bombcollar
Summary: Kos is offered a replacement child.





	in Her image

**Author's Note:**

> I should have written this ages ago as I've developed my Bloodborne AU for these two extensively. I hope this illustrates what it's about well enough!

Buckets of seawater fill the wide, shallow basin, collected from tidepools, still warm and teeming with life. Small jellyfish, minnows, the larvae of a thousand unnamed things, a microscopic audience to his ascension, incapable of grasping the significance. As they, too, were incapable of grasping the machinations of the Great Ones, but one thing was certain. There was a longing, there was loss, spaces vast and empty, full of echoes. A child, a child made in Her image, slick and pale and iridescent, mantled in holy translucent flesh and bioluminescent flecks like stars, eyes black as the trenches, oily and shiny as a seal’s. A child for Kos.

Ten years they had toiled. The child had come to them so frail and deformed there was doubt he would survive even a week, and so there had been no reason to hold back, nothing to lose. So many children came to them, homeless and motherless and they were given a home and a purpose, veins filled with the ichor of the gods their ever willing, ever generous Daughter provided. Had the Church not repented? Had they not made up for their sins? She was right to be angry, their Mother Kos. They had seen how Yharnam had grown sick, poisoned blood in its veins, creeping red fingers of infection down every street and alleyway, Her fury taking form. There was no other way. She must have Her child back, the one they’d ripped from Her body, sorted into pieces. He could not be restored, and that was why they’d made another.

Lothric clutches the side of the basin, trembling in breathless excitement. Soon he would meet his Mother. He’d dreamed of Her, of Her vast shape looming below him in an endless abyss, out of his reach no matter how he swam. She did not hear him calling, didn’t turn to see him reaching for Her, but now She would. The Choir would invoke Her, the seawater was a catalyst, a small piece of Her domain. Once this pool had been used to hold blood, deep and wide enough for a man to lay submerged with his arms and legs spread. The caulk between the dark blue tiles is still stained brown with it. They’ve set lamps around the edges, just enough light to see by, stark so it deepens the lines of concern on Lorian’s face.

He kneels at the edge of the basin, Lothric peering up at him. He brushes aside some of the thin tentacles Lothric had in place of hair, hanging like unkempt bangs from beneath his membranous hood. They were both orphans, though Lorian had been taken at an older age, old enough to remember the parents who’d vanished mysteriously, leaving him to wonder what he’d ever done to make them go without him. Since then, he’d been raised to serve the Church, appointed as a personal guardian to the institution’s most precious and vital experiment. They are kind to allow him a last goodbye. “Don’t be sad,” Lothric tells him, “I won’t be gone. I’ll just be with Her.”

They both know it is for the best, that there may be no other way to end the plague of beasts. Years of experiments, of illness, cold needles and vertigo, of watching himself change, _ascend_ from a human body into something reminiscent of poor Kos. Now, he was perfect, he was _finished_ , and all the pain would soon be gone. Lorian’s throat works as he swallows, putting a hand on Lothric’s thin, slimy shoulder. Nobody had dared to ask what would happen if it didn’t work. It _must_ work, She must feel their love, their sorrow. They were giving Her one of their own. A fair trade.

“...it’ll be okay,” Lothric says, his voice small, because he was not sure it would be. Not for Lorian. A servant never foresaw themselves as anything but a servant, and there was no place for a servant who could not even move efficiently. Lorian’s limping had only gotten worse over the years, and he was certain they only kept him around for Lothric’s sake. What would become of him, even if the city was cleansed?

The ritual was about to begin, something far too important for Lorian to witness. He stands stiffly, taking a last look at the crowd of gathered Choir members. Everybody who’d had a hand in Lothric’s transformation, eyes shielded with silver from the glory of their Mother, white robes luminous in the pale light. He looks at Lothric, so tiny in the center of the pool, his tail curled under him. Only a child, tasked with saving them all. Promised this would be the way, that he would be loved, that he would have a mother who would not forsake him.

Lorian slips out of the room, leaning against the wall a few feet from the doorway. He knew he would never have his own children, but Lothric had been something close, and even as the boy took on his new form, he hoped Lothric remembered him. Perhaps it was presumptuous to ask for such a thing. Lothric was not meant for him, not meant to be his brother, for they were all brothers and sisters of the Church, not meant to be his son, no matter how fiercely he’d wanted to protect the sickly child in his arms. They both had their purpose and it must be carried out.

He gathers his coat in his arms and presses it to his face, only capable of strangled, grunting sobs. However, he’s given little time to mourn as a concussive blast knocks him off his feet, sending him sprawling to the floor. Dust rains from the ceiling and he can hear a distant clinking as the grand chandelier sways in the main hall. Confused voices rise from the rest of the inhabitants, murmuring distantly as he gets back to his feet. Numbly he pushes the door open and stumbles into the room, almost slipping before he notices the floor is covered in water. It lies in perfect dewdrops across the tiles, the still, prone bodies of the Choir, lying with their blinders knocked off and their eyes open wide.

The basin is empty, only a thin film of seawater left. Lothric lies in a small heap against the side. He is cold and limp as Lorian lifts him, but his guardian’s shaky fingers find a pulse beneath his jaw. As warm tears still roll down his cheeks, Lorian wraps Lothric in his coat. They could not stay here. Soon the rest of the Church would come, they would realize all their experimentation had been for naught... And so, like they did with Her last child, they would open him up, find out where they may have gone wrong, learn the true nature of what they had wrought. There must be some part of the city they could hide, somewhere along its outskirts the Church would not dare to look. They must believe the two of them had perished, that Lothric had simply been vaporized by whatever force had killed every last Choir member gathered for the ritual.

A while later, Lothric wakes. He buries his face in Lorian’s chest as they wait for the sun to set, for the safety of darkness. “I thought I was good enough,” he whimpers. “Why didn’t She want me? What did I do wrong?”

But Lorian has no answer.


End file.
